


an anchor if he needs one

by LostGeekGwen



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad & Spiderson, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, Minor Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, and he gets one, bc i like to make you cry, ben is literally the best ever, but i hope yall know who im talking ab ;), but its happy god dammit bc these post iw years are trying times for us all, he is a padre!!!!, he loves his newphew!!!! sue me!!!, leave ur nastiness at the door thanks, peter goes to visits ben's grave, this is all purely platonic so ya nasties stay away, this is father son content only zone, this takes places a few months after hoco but a few months before iw, tony is learning to dad tm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 22:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGeekGwen/pseuds/LostGeekGwen
Summary: “Mm,” Mr. Stark hummed, “Then care to explain why you’re home- presumably alone- at 10:15 a.m. on a Tuesday morning while your regular classes are going on?”Peter paused. Technically, he could explain it all to Mr. Stark, have an over-the-phone hug, and call it a day. But Ben wasn’t the person you would casually talk about over the phone, and he wasn’t sure if he even could talk about it. It wasn’t like Mr. Stark didn’t understand… it was more of the fact that Peter still didn’t understand.Which was why he definitely wanted to be alone. He wanted this day to be over, because then he could worry about… the emotions… later. When it didn’t feel so close.“Maybe I just feel like it,” Peter said lameley, knowing that his excuse was flimsy at best and a cry for help at worst, “Teenage rebellion and all that…. Super into it right now.”“Your instagram page is you doing service work in local soup kitchens,” Mr. Stark said, “Somehow, ‘rebellious teen’ doesn’t fit your image.”----Tony takes Peter to visit Ben's grave. Peter learns something important.





	an anchor if he needs one

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I know the grammar is shoddy at best, and I would offer an excuse, but I don't have one. This has always been a vent piece for when I'm sad, and I've been working on it since around August, only to fill in the rest of the outline on a two-hour writing spree brought on by nothing but sugar and a need to make myself feel useful. To take out what I wrote earlier would be to erase what I was feeling then (which is NOT a pretentious excuse... I looked for grammar as much as I could. I'm just explaining why I used sentence fragments like a doctor with leeches during the middle ages). Either way, I hope you enjoy.

It was one of those forgettable foggy days, the one where the air itself was wet with tears. Low-hanging clouds blanketed the never-sleeping city, thick enough to grey the sky but thin enough to let in light. There was just enough chill in the air to be discouraged from going outdoors, but warm enough that pedestrians of New York went about their business as per usual. Cars screeched, pigeons cooed, people talked, and Peter was in bed. 

The worst part is that May hadn’t even tried to wake him up before she left for work. She had already known what kind of day it would be. She knew it would be better to let Peter rest. 

The lights in his room where off, but the day had already begun. The light, polluted with the grey clouds’ filter, cast monotone shadows through the window on Peter’s bookshelves and walls. The air was stiff, hot, and musty with teenage-room-stink (something May had told him was a mix between dirty shoes, deodorant, and sleep deprivation) and there was nothing his tiny portable fan could do to remedy it. His phone had already blown up- Ned nervous-texts- and as Peter rolled around in bed, he heard it ping again. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

His eyes were red, he had a killer headache, and he was exhausted. Emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually… if there was a -ally for it, then Peter was drained of it. To make a long story really short- he didn’t feel so good.

And it wasn’t even that- the fact that he was most likely sick- that bothered him. It was the fact that it was so unfair, so unnecessary, and the longer Peter thought about it the more it made sense that it should have been him, not Ben, Peter was the one in the way- 

Then his phone started ringing. 

And God, was Peter’s ringtone annoying. Why had he made it a constant loop of the Iron Man repulsors firing? The sound made a slow, grating, dig at the back of his head, the kind that would make any sensible person wince in pain. Peter took one glance at the offending device and chucked it across the room. He didn’t need enhanced senses to know the screen was cracked. 

At least Peter would have an excuse for not picking up. 

“Kid? Friday just told me you destroyed your screen.”

Unless it was Tony-Freaking-Stark, who sets up protocols in his “free” phones that tells him when there’s the slightest inkling of danger, and gives him the authority to answer the phone for himself. 

“Gee, I wonder why,” Peter said, voice hoarse, “Definitely not because I threw it at the wall.” 

There was a concerned pause, “And you threw your one-thousand dollar phone at a wall because?” 

Peter opened his mouth, but didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have an answer because logically, he didn’t know why he threw his phone at the wall. Sure, he didn’t want to talk to anybody (on a day like this, who would?) but ignoring the call would have been just as effective. Maybe he had been angry. After all, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he was gone. He didn’t deserve it. 

If he closed his eyes hard enough, and listened closely, he could still hear Ben’s uneven gait walking around on the creaking floorboards of the living room. He can still smell his ridiculously strong shampoo in the bathroom, and could feel his breath on his forehead right before Ben would kiss him goodnight. 

“Kid?” 

Instead of answering, Peter pushed himself up to a sitting position with his elbow, ignoring the balloon-like lightheadedness that turned his vision into multi-colored stars. He stood up and curled his toes on the hard, cold, wood flooring before walking across the room to get his phone. 

“Kid, are you alright? Friday says you’re not at school,” Tony said, “Which is very unlike you, considering the fact I had to spidey-sit you last week because you thought a one-oh-two fever was still acceptable for academics.” 

Peter almost smiled at Mr. Stark’s attempt to lighten the mood, but faltered, because today was Today and it wasn’t fair. 

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” he said, “I’m not sick or anything. I’m just home.” 

He tapped on the spider-web cracked screen, pressing the red END button with his phone. He then sat the phone back down on the floor, because he had no intention of doing much of anything today, and promptly got back in bed. Sleep the day away. That would let him forget about how today was Today and it wasn’t fair. 

Before he could get back to sweet images of holding hands and six-year-old birthday parties with just him, Aunt May, and Ben, the phone began to ring again. Peter groaned.

“Karen?” he called out. Thank God for Mr. Stark including this function.

“Yes, Peter?” the suit answered from across the room, where it had been stuffed into his backpack. 

“Can you mute calls for me?” he asked, waiting for the sweet sound of silence. It never came.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have the authority to mute calls from Mr. Stark on your phone,” Karen answered. Peter threw back his covers and got out of bed, marching angrily towards the phone. He grabbed it off the floor, clutching it dangerously hard for someone with super-strength. The picture of Mr. Stark’s contact image smiled back at him through the criss-crossed lines on the screen. Right. One thousand dollar phone. That he got for free. From Mr. Stark. He had already shattered the screen. 

He pressed the home screen button and the call disappeared. Silence. Sweet, loving, enveloping silence, that would kindly let him doze off into peace as if it weren’t the worst anniversary of Peter’s life. Or, second worst, if you counted the parents thing.

That didn’t count as much, Peter thought morbidly. Peter’s parents didn’t live long enough to make him feel like this. 

Peter got back in bed for the third time, this time, setting the phone on his bedside table in case anyone (Mr. Stark) didn’t get the idea that he wanted to. Be. left. Alone. 

Naturally, the phone continued ringing. Peter picked up this time.

“What,” he said, not really asking, not really caring that he was talking to Tony Freaking Stark, because today was Today and Peter Parker didn’t care. 

“Peter, are you alright?” Mr. Stark asked, “I get that the celebrity feeling wears off after a while, and I’m just boring Mr. Boss Stark who requires unforgiving work hours to watch movies, but you have a tendency to hang up on me before, excuse my french, shit hits the fan.” 

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter repeated, “Can you just…”

He trailed off before he could say ‘leave me alone’. 

“What do you need, kid?” Mr. Stark tried, “I am literally free all day today.”

“I seriously am having a hard time believing that,” Peter replied, “Exactly how many things are you putting off by calling me right now?”

“Enough that we won’t be telling Pepper why I missed a conference with a trade union,” Mr. Stark said with faux seriousness. Peter snorted. 

“Maybe you should… I don’t know, do your job?” He asked.

“But then Pepper wouldn’t have her job of doing what I don’t do,” Mr. Stark said, “Which is everything.”

“Then she can do her actual job!” Peter replied happily. 

“I take back what I said about offering my assistance,” Mr. Stark said, sounding pleasantly surprised that Peter hasn’t confessed a life-threatening wound or an imminent emotional breakdown. 

“Good,” Peter lied, “Because I don’t need it.” 

“Mm,” Mr. Stark hummed, “Then care to explain why you’re home- presumably alone- at 10:15 a.m. on a Tuesday morning while your regular classes are going on?” 

Peter paused. Technically, he could explain it all to Mr. Stark, have an over-the-phone hug, and call it a day. But Ben wasn’t the person you would casually talk about over the phone, and he wasn’t sure if he even could talk about it. It wasn’t like Mr. Stark didn’t understand… it was more of the fact that Peter still didn’t understand. 

Which was why he definitely wanted to be alone. He wanted this day to be over, because then he could worry about… the emotions… later. When it didn’t feel so close.

“Maybe I just feel like it,” Peter said lameley, knowing that his excuse was flimsy at best and a cry for help at worst, “Teenage rebellion and all that…. Super into it right now.”

“Your instagram page is you doing service work in local soup kitchens,” Mr. Stark said, “Somehow, ‘rebellious teen’ doesn’t fit your image.”

The fact that Mr. Stark followed him on instagram had lost its luster when following people was all he knew how to do. 

“Maybe its all a ploy, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, thoroughly assuming the mask of the ever-excited ever-happy Peter Parker that Mr. Stark knew, “To make you think I’m all goody-two-shoes, but really at night, I’m fighting crime as a masked vigilante.”

“Because that would be a total surprise,” he huffed, then waited a few seconds before adding, “Ok kid, you’ve had your stall time, tell me what’s up.” 

Peter let out a half-sigh and a half-groan. 

“Spill the tea, kid,” Mr. Stark said, causing every cell in Peter’s body to immediately morph into a mixture of raging shame, anger, and dread, “Is that how you say it? Spill the tea?”

“Please never say those words in that order again,” Peter said, “You’re killing me, Mr. Stark. You’re actually killing me.” 

“You love me,” he said back.

“That’s a bold statement for someone who said ‘spill the tea’ at the ripe age of Too Old,” Peter said back. 

“And that's a bold use of internet slang to avoid the issue,” Mr. Start fired back, “You’re really tempting me to deploy the Iron Man Armada over here.”

“You only have like, three that you have on standby,” Peter said, “That’s not an armada.” 

“Kid,” Mr. Stark said.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter mimicked. There was a long groan. Then an even longer silence. 

“Is there anyway I can help with whatever is going on?” Mr. Stark asked. 

Peter glanced out the grey window into the gray sky. He hadn’t planned on doing much of anything, but….

“Could you ask Happy to pick me up?” Peter finally asked, “I want- I need….. to go somewhere.” 

There was a pause, “Do you need to go to a specific place or do you need to go?” 

“There’s a place, Mr. Stark,” Peter admitted, “Super safe and all that… its really close, in fact I could just walk. Actually, I think I’ll just walk there. This has been a great chat, Mr. Stark, it really has. I’m going to get dressed now, and I’ll call you later-”

“Happy can pick you up,” Mr. Stark finally interrupted, sensing how Peter had no intention of leaving the apartment, “Be ready in fifteen minutes.” 

In the end, Mr. Stark ended up picking Peter up, and he was there in ten minutes. Typical. When Peter finally trudged out of door of the apartment building, he felt the scrutinizing once-over at his wardrobe only a true Stark could give. That was followed by a barely detectable frown. It was only fair, Peter had only haphazardly thrown on a hoodie and sweatpants before “brushing” his hair and actually brushing his teeth. It would to be a fair assumption he wasn’t meeting his typical appearance standards. 

“So, Underoos, what time do you have to be there?” Tony asked, leaning against a shiny Audi whose cost could probably buy the entire apartment building, and then some. He pulled his obnoxious sunglasses down, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

The worst part was the fact that he looked so smug about it, as if it remotely surprised Peter at all that he was genius enough to concoct the plan of driving him to leach out whatever was troubling him. 

“What?” Peter asked.

Tony sighed, “Listen kid, I want to take you out to lunch first if that’s alright with you.”

“Oh, Mr. Stark it’s fine I already-”

“Perfect. It’s decided then. We’re going to a nice Italian place up North that I’ve been dying to try. You up for Italian?” 

Peter nodded and stared at his feet. When Mr. Stark entered this stage of Concerned Mentor, it was best to just give in. 

“Perfect,” Mr. Stark repeated, more to himself than to Peter. He took in a deep breath before flashing one of his trademark smiles, tapping the hood of the Audi, and walking around to the driver’s seat, “Well? What are we waiting for?”

Peter opened the door and slid into the car. He buckled up, and within minutes the familiar grey backdrop of Queens faded into the lively way-too-many-cars traffic of the general New York populus. 

“Rough day?” Tony tried, glancing at Peter from the corner of his eye.

“A bit of one, yea,” Peter admitted. When he didn’t say anything else, Tony let the conversation drop, he instead turned to the radio to fill up the dampening silence. 

It was a steady guitar riff, followed by drums and a filtered voice chanting about cages and feeling fine.

“Hey this is that one song you like, right? Mr… Bright, something,” Mr. Stark offered, glancing over at Peter. His head was focused outside on the passing buildings with a quiet resignation that had never suited him. 

“Mr. Brightside?” Peter asked, glancing at him with a sarcastic half-smile. 

“Or something,” Tony said back, turning the radio up. By the time the song ended, they had arrived at “Some Italian Place he had wanted to check out”. 

It was shiny and expensive, two of the many words that summed Tony Stark up. From outside the pleasant aroma of sauce, seasoning, and superiority hit Peter square in the face. Gold plating covered the entire street-facing wall, save for an italian phrase engraved in black. The windows were a reflective black, a curtain shutting all of the poorer and busier passerbys of New York out. Peter’s eyes landed on the black windows and his distorted form, and the starkness of his grey sweatpants and ripped-up converse. 

“Oh, Mr. Stark… I-”

“Don’t worry about paying, kid,” he replied, pushing through the foot traffic in a way only Tony Stark could make look graceful, “Lunch is on me.”

“What about my-”

“You look fine. I was the one who sprung lunch on you. Besides, if anything says anything about it they’ll deal with the media storm of a scathing review from Tony Stark,” he flashed Peter one of his fakest, most reassuring smiles, before pulling open the gold-handled door and ushering Peter inside. 

The inside of the restaurant was even more fancy from the outside. The tiles were all clean-cut 4 by 4 marble squares, each one polished and reflecting the expansive ceiling painting that was accented by gold leafing. Snow-white tablecloths covered each table with a heavy permanence, their entourage of chairs only made visible by the faint candles burning on their heads. Each one had two or three patrons at them each, and as Peter watched them he saw the way gold and diamonds glinted off them. A fraction of a person’s wardrobe here could pay he and May’s rent easily, he thought to himself. Even if he had worn his best clothes- his Homecoming suit- he would have still been underdressed. Why would Mr. Stark take him here? Their favorite place was the Burger Shack anyways-

Two fingers appeared in front of his blurred eyes, and snapped him back to reality.

“Kid? Kid there’s a table open-” Mr. Stark began, pausing when he saw the tears threatening to fall from Peter’s face, “shit…. Kid are you-”

“I’m fine,” Peter sniffed, rubbing his eyes self-consciously. He stretched a smile and turned back to Mr. Stark, “Let’s go sit down.”

“If you say so.” 

Their waiter brought them to their table with a strained air of indifference, as if they weren’t seating local hero and billionaire Tony effing Stark. Their table was near the back, hidden from the view of the hostess’s podium but close to subtle emergency exits. It was private, which meant that someone would have to go out of their way to give them a hard time. 

Time seemed to pass in a blur, with waiters coming to refill their glasses and salads and pasta appearing and disappearing. Peter must have eaten some, because Mr. Stark never commented on it. He did shoot him several series of concerned glances over the arc of his sunglasses, in a way one could interpret as paternal. But Peter knew that totally wasn’t the case. Mr. Stark was just Mr. Stark. And Mr. Stark was just pitying him. Because Peter was a dork, an embarrassing idiot, who stuttered and got excited but only when he was pretending he was fine because he was totally not fine. He hadn’t been fine since Homecoming, but no one knew that, that was a story for another time, and not for Tony Stark. He was just Mr-

“You look like you’re about to cry again,” he said cautiously, setting his water glass down, “Do you-”

Peter scrambled to stand up, “I’m good, Mr. Stark. Never been better, really. I just… I just really need to use the restroom, alright? I really just need to go.” 

Peter hurried away from the table, despite Mr. Stark’s protests, into the main dining floor, where dozens of eyes were on him. He was breathing heavily and knew he looked crazy, a crying, greasy-haired kid wearing sweats and converse in one of the more higher-end restaurants of upper-class New York, he must look crazy, because all the waiters and waitresses had stopped pouring expensive iced water into crystalline glasses to stare at him, he must look crazy, because he felt crazy and sad, he was overwhelmed there was too much- 

“May I help you, sir?” A waiter said, cautiously dropping a manicured hand on Peter’s shoulder, he spun around, the candle-light burning stars into his retinas, before his eyes landed on the concerned gaze of another person. But behind that was judgement, fear, and superiority- Peter didn’t belong, he hadn’t belong in so long, he was falling apart because he couldn’t deal with his stupid uncle dying. 

“I- I’m sorry,” Peter’ voice broke and he backed away, into the table of a young, uncomfortable couple who scooted their chairs away in disdain, “I’m sorry… I need to-”

Then there was another hand on his shoulder, one that was warm and grounding and familiar, followed by a heavy weight across his arms and back and a solid pair of frames on his face. There were words in his ears that drowned out the classical music medley, there was the smell of grease and the lab that erased the trace of garlic, and there was the darkness and finality of the sunglasses that allowed him to believe he didn’t just make a scene in one of the snootiest “Italian places” Tony wanted to try. 

When Peter opened his eyes again, they were in the snooty alley beside the restaurant.

“What was that about, Peter?” Tony asked, crouching down in front of him, “Because I’m not going to lie, you kind of freaked us all out there.” 

For a brief second, guilt replaced grief, because oh god, people were probably recording Tony, which meant there would be a storm tomorrow, and Peter just ruined every chance he had at being unseen by the public, and Tony would have to deal with all of it. 

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“That’s not what I meant. You’ve been…” Tony sighed, “May called me today, while she was on break. Said that it would be a good idea to check in on you.”

Peter blinked.

“She’s not wrong, you’ve been, well, weird, lately. I know I’m out of my lane here but, you’re a good kid, and I… enjoy your company. You’re a breath of fresh air I guess. And if anything’s wrong, well, I can’t say I’m superman, but I’m ironman, and that's pretty darn close. I’ll help as much as I can.” 

Peter took a deep wheezy breath, ignoring the fact that's the closet Mr. Stark will ever get to admitting they love someone, and wiped the tears from his eyes. 

“Could you drive me somewhere?” Peter asked, “And… get some flowers, or something nice? I need to do something important.” 

Tony Stark nodded, before standing up and patting Peter on the shoulder. 

“We’ll get the best damn flowers in all of New York.”

\-----

“Are you sure you know where you’re leading me, kid? Because there’s only two more turns on this road, and one of them leads to-”

“Yea, yea,” Peter interrupted, “I’ve been here before.”

“Please don’t tell me I’m driving you to some obscene illegal teenage act,” Mr. Stark muttered with a frown, and not the kind that accompanied his normal gibes. 

“What part of that comment implied-”

“Kid please, where are we going.” Mr. Stark said tiredly. Peter shifted in the car seat, watching as run down building after run down building zipped by the window. Above the cracked ledges of the rooftops he could see the towering maples that littered their destination. A cool breeze entered the car through the exposed sunroof, quickly covering his arms in goosebumps. 

“Uh… just keep on going forward, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quietly. 

“‘Ok.” The frown solidified into something harder and harsher, and Peter turned his attention to the window. Building, building, building, building…..

Until the only thing separating them from their destination was a cast-iron fence older than Iron Man himself. The maples were clearly visible now, cast in a diluted orange and weighed down by the atmosphere's moisture. They shaded already cool hills, each one dotted with unmistakably grey grim stones. Ahead of them, two open gates formed a gaping mouth, only decorated by two well-maintained shrubberies and a broze sign that simply read “QUEENS MEMORIAL GRAVEYARD”. 

Mr. Stark pulled into the empty parking lot and stopped the car. Then there was silence. A silence that lasted too long, a silence that demanded too much, wrapped in question and fear and care and a need for an explanation so intense that Peter couldn’t not say anything, not after everything Tony did today of all days-

“I miss my uncle,” Peter blurted out. 

“Ok,” Mr. Stark answered, dropping his shoulders ever so slightly as if he had been bracing for impact. Even without superhearing Peter could have heard the sigh of relief. 

“Ok?” 

“Ok,” Mr. Stark said, looking at Peter, “It’s ok.” 

“Ok,” Peter repeated, before slowly unbuckling the too-tight seatbelt and stepping out on the crunchy ground.

“Sweet Jesus,” Mr. Stark muttered, “Remind me to pay someone to actually pave this. My poor tires….” 

Peter turned around, waiting for Mr. Stark, who in turn looked like he was waiting for Peter. Peter raised his eyebrows, and Mr. Stark got out of the car. 

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quietly, as if not to wake the dead. The wind, lukewarm and indifferent all day, suddenly felt oh so chilling and oh so choking. The sky, however, maintained its neutral gray. 

Mr. Stark’s hesitation was more than evident. 

“As long as it's ok with you,” he replied back, barely any louder. Peter turned to face the cemetery, watching as if the grayscale lawn would gain any vibrance. It didn'’t. 

“Yea,” Peter said, digging his nails into the still-wet stems of the flowers, “It is.” 

And so they began on their journey, first following the main “paved” road until it broke off into different sections. Sometime along the way, the clouds began to spit tiny balls of icy rain down, splattering on Peter’s shoulders and neck. Slowly he became more aware of Tony’s discomfort- emotions weren’t always his thing, and that suit and those shoes were not meant for the rigor of whoever had decided this constituted as a finished road. And to add on top of it, the rain only grew heavier with time, and Peter grimaced because he really didn’t want to drag anyone else into this, Tony had things to do after all, it was a Monday. Yet he matched pace with Peter (a recognizable achievement, since Peter was a physically fit teenage superhuman and Mr. Stark had once seen the dinosaurs roam the Earth) and always stayed in his line of sight, like an anchor if he needed one. 

They crisscrossed past identical headstones, weaving in and out like fish trapped in an aquarium with nothing better to do that follow the same paths through the plastic coral. That is, until they reached the one near a towering Maple tree, one that was still fairly new (only 558 and a half days, Peter had counted), with nothing more than

Ben Parker  
Loving Husband, Loving Uncle, Loving Friend  
1962-2017  
“I’m with you until the end of the line” 

Ironic, considering he wasn’t with him anymore. 

Peter set the flowers down first, like a careful offering, before straightening up and edging away from the half-inch rectangular indention in the ground. 

“Hi, Ben,” Peter said carefully. He crouched down again, and without taking his eyes of the grave felt the wet grass. He sat down anyways. He scooted forward, then backwards, then hunched forward and let his hands play in the grass. 

“You ok?” he heard Tony ask quietly, close by in reality but miles away in his head. 

“I haven’t been here to visit him since…” Peter trailed off, shifting in the wet grass. He heard Tony open his mouth, as if trying to say something, before shutting it quietly and slowly sitting down behind him. 

“What was he like?” Mr. Stark asked softly, in a voice so gentle and, fatherly, no one would have guessed he was Iron Man. 

With his question the dreary cold of the maples faded away, along with the aint Queens traffic and pollution. Peter was in the living room of the apartment, seven years prior, back when the pencil indentions in the door frames were a weekly ritual and both May and Ben were home more. Back then the apartment just felt like an apartment, because Peter just felt like a normal person. He didn’t keep secrets back then. Faintly he could hear May’s old Italian stereo, and the soft humming of Ben as they slow danced in the kitchen. Peter was on the ground, crouched behind a couch, with one eye closed and the other peering through a toilet paper tube he and Ned had decorated to look like a spyglass. 

“Ben… never wanted kids. He never thought he was cut out for it. He was a quiet guy and wanted a quiet life,” Peter began, “But you never would have guessed it. He was… the best. When I was a little kid he bought be an astronomy book. He would come in after May put me to bed and we would hide under the covers with a flashlight, like we were hiding some secret. We would go through the pages and memorize the constellations and planets.”

Peter and Ben were sitting on the roof of the apartment, both bundled up in two fuzzy throw blankets they had stolen from the back of the coat closet. Yesterday’s wash filtered through the breeze like ancient spirits, new and unfamiliar in the filter of night. Ben led Peter through them like a beacon, pushing them back as gently as he would if he were shuffling through a busy subway station. Suddenly Bed stopped, crouching down to Peter.

“This is a super secret hideout, ok?” he said, “So you can’t tell anyone.” 

“Not even May?”

“Especially May. The more who know about our secret star quest, the more danger they’re in.” 

Peter must have made an adorably resilient face for an eight year old, because Ben laughed and ruffled his hair. With a dramatic flourish, Ben pulled back the final sheet, revealing a pillow fort to end all pillow forts. There was a big lantern, the old fashioned kind, lit in the center, illuminating a bowl of Peter’s favorite trail mix and dozens of library books on astronomy. Only halfway through did they realize the stars were too dim from the apartment.

“We’ll just have to set up an even bigger and more advanced base, Ben,” Peter remembered saying, as he fell asleep against Ben’s chest. 

“On my birthday, we drove upstate to a small park with blankets and a telescope Ben had borrowed from a coworker. We stayed up all night watching the stars.”

Peter climbed out of the car, eyes wide as he took in the view. Not even the messy fourth-grade art room glitter projects could replicated the amount of stars in the sky. All the while Ben leaned back, content in watching Peter grin.

“What is the aliens come and get us?” Peter asked seriously, “We have to be prepared.” 

“Peter, we’ve been cataloging the star maps for years. I know the weaknesses in their tech.”

He reached into the trunk, revealing an old bike helmet with aluminum foil and glow sticks covering it. 

“What’s the password, Pete?”

“Orion’s belt.” 

Ben reached above Peter’s head and snapped the glow sticks, watching the way Peter’s eyes lit up in their glow. 

“Are you ready, space cadet?” 

“Always, Captain Parker.” 

“I think I left my book at that park, because I couldn’t find it and cried for like, half an hour. We didn’t have the money to buy another one. Ben took me to a diner after we searched the entire park, and we drew all the pages we could remember on napkins from the dispenser.”

Peter paused, waiting for the pricks of tears in his eyes to fade away before continuing, “I still have them in a shoebox under my bed. Whenever I miss him a lot, I take them out and read over them.” 

He left out the part about how before Tony called, he had gotten so upset he tore one up. One that Ben drew. One of the last personal things that proved Ben had existed- 

“He sounds like an amazing guy,” 

“Yea,” Peter said, “He was.” 

Tony drew Peter close, nestling his head in his chest so that Peter’s head was pointed to the perpetually grey sky. He swallowed his tears down, but not his grief. That had been staying with him all day, and could not be willed away like anything else. Grief meant remembering, and remembering meant understanding. And maybe a small part of Peter understood. It understood how today was when he was finally meant to be here, because something important needed to be said, to be released, so that he can finally move on. 

“He loved you so much, Peter,” Tony said softly.

Yea, Peter thought, He did. 

They wouldn’t go home later, and when they did it was after a properly greasy meal at a properly greasy establishment. Even then it was followed by a movie at Peter’s apartment, and although it wasn’t the same, the constant feeling of an arm around him was comforting.

\----

It was one of those forgettable foggy days, the one where the air itself was wet with tears. Low-hanging clouds blanketed the never-sleeping city, thick enough to grey the sky but thin enough to let in light. There was just enough chill in the air to be discouraged from going outdoors, but warm enough that pedestrians of New York went about their business as per usual. 

Cars screeched, pigeons cooed, people talked, and Peter felt peace.


End file.
